sol.ace_r

This piece is written for those who could not speak.

At times, we live on without ever truly looking into someone’s heart—even when they are very close to us.
We keep a distance that might have been crossed with an outstretched hand, and justify our silence with words like
“They’ll be fine,”
“It will pass.”

Meanwhile, someone is slowly disappearing.
Quietly smiling, offering greetings, answering roll calls as usual, walking together, sitting together, laughing together— until one day, without a word, they collapse.

This series is about those people.
They did not cry loudly.
They did not shout for help.
But they were, unmistakably, saying something.
They were around us, and they still are, somewhere.

Some lost their music.
Some became trapped in the snare of memory.
Some, unable to endure any longer, chose a quiet farewell.
These writings are records, carefully brought forth from the place where no one spoke on their behalf.
They may read like fiction, but perhaps they are the story of someone beside you.
Or perhaps, your own.

While writing this, I cried countless times, stopped, and began again.
Even imagining the depth of another’s pain made the weight of breathing heavy for an entire day.

Still, I chose not to turn away from that pain.
Because these stories are the language of those who disappeared yet did not vanish, of times that were erased yet never truly gone.

The title, “Between Blue Cracks,”
refers to a fissure in the heart where the light has not completely shut out—a very small opening, but one where hope still lives.

Depression is like a wall, but even within it, there are cracks.
Through those cracks, light enters—very slowly.
Even in a room where no words can be heard, sometimes the wind passes through.
And that wind becomes proof:
“I am still alive.”

I hope that you, reading this, can feel the touch of that wind.
Even if you have lived through a time when you could not speak, may this quiet record reach across all those unsaid words.

This series is not a finished sentence, but a story still being written.
For someone, it is not yet over.
For someone else, it has only just begun.

I hope it rests quietly in your heart, and slowly seeps in.

And in this very moment—the fact that you are reading these words allows me to say this without hesitation:

“You are alive.”
“And that, in itself,
is something profoundly beautiful.”